Working on a tobacco farm is hell. It’s one of the very few jobs I’ve ever been offered and flat-out refused. My grandmother, MHSRIP, grew up on a Rhodesian tobacco farm, and her stories were basically OSHA violation fan fiction. I think she got paid five cents per stick, or some other single digit.
When she passed, she left me three things: a warm duvet, a mug with half the handle missing, and an encyclopaedia of useless tobacco trivia. I learnt that tobacco can poison you through your skin. Simply touching it can trigger a medical emergency. The nicotine seeps through your skin, and if you’re unlucky enough to wipe sweat from your face, it’ll send you into convulsions. One time, it happened to her, and she vomited until her stomach was clean, nearly passing out from dehydration. “I was sick to my stomach,” she said. Which is, coincidentally, also how most people describe their first time hearing Silent Killer.
Drying the tobacco wasn’t any gentler. You had to lash the stalks together and hoist them up into the barn rafters, thirty or forty feet in the air, without a harness, then catwalk across beams with a load heavy enough to cave your chest in. If you slipped, you broke something important. If you survived, congratulations; you got to do it again tomorrow. It’s a brutal loop; the same one Silent Killer’s microphone has been trapped in for his whole career.
People think I don’t like Silent Killer. That’s a slanderous lie. I am proudly pro-Ngwere. I have studied his catalogue almost as closely as I’ve studied astronomy, which is the other great obsession in my life. Friends always ask me if I think aliens exist, and my answer is always yes. Statistically, given the sheer number of stars, it’s almost impossible that we’re alone. But will we ever meet them? Probably not. The distances are cosmically, insultingly long.
But perhaps future generations will crack it. There was a time when nobody left their hometown. Now I can jump on a plane and be on the other side of the planet in 24 hours with two bad meals and one stranger’s elbow in my ribs. So someday, humanity might stumble into warp travel, and when it does, our great-grandchildren will finally see alien life. But until then, the closest humanity has ever come to extraterrestrial contact is Silent Killer.
It’s tough to explain to someone who’s never heard a Silent Killer song what that first listen feels like. It’s disorienting. His flow lives outside time signatures. His vocals sound like distress calls from deep space. It’s surreal, it’s hilarious, and it’s terrifying. Even if the song is bad, you don’t forget it. You learn to cope and live with it, one day at a time.
When I was at Harare Institute of Technology, I took Mandarin classes since the administration was convinced Sino-Zim relations would be the key to our salvation. My lecturer was Minnie Laoshi, “Teacher Minnie.” That’s how we knew her before she married the Vice President, General Chiwenga. Six degrees of separation in Zimbabwe is basically two and a half.
Minnie Laoshi urged us to read Chinese books, listen to Chinese music, and watch Chinese movies. Two of the things I hate most in this life are reading and Chinese hip-hop. Especially Chinese hip-hop. Some people call it C-Rap, but if you drop the hyphen, the branding becomes more accurate.
So I skipped straight to film, my one true love. At first, it was just an excuse to watch Shaolin Soccer for the 900th time. But then I got ambitious and watched Bi Gan’s Long Day’s Journey Into the Night without subtitles. I understood about 5% of it. Then I rewatched it with subtitles and understood even less.
That, in a nutshell, is Silent Killer’s music. The first time you press play, you’re confused but intrigued. The second time, you expect answers but end up with more questions. By the third listen, you’re in too deep to escape. Somewhere between confusion and compulsion, you fall in love. That was me. Ngwere’s music carried me through awful shifts, awful drives home, and, most of all, through the grief of losing my sister. The pain never leaves, but his madness distracted me just enough to dull the edges.
My sister, though, hated him with a passion. On her deathbed, she joked that if the world ever ended out of nowhere, it would be because God had finally had enough of Silent Killer. I laughed, but of course, the nerd in me turned it into an excuse to lecture her about astronomy. I explained gamma ray bursts, which could fry the Earth in an instant. I explained vacuum decay, which rewrites the laws of physics at the speed of light; one second you’re here, the next you’re gone. I explained rogue asteroids, cosmic debris, and all the countless ways the universe could erase us without even noticing. She responded, “If any of that happens, at least I won’t have to hear Silent Killer again.”
I never got to convince her otherwise. The song I was saving for her was Locker Mastreets. I had a full breakdown ready to present, complete with exhibits and footnotes. But Rutendo didn’t make it out of Chitungwiza Hospital. When she passed, she left me a duvet (why always duvets?), some ring molds, and a few CDs, which, to be fair, was already more than Grandma ever managed. What breaks me most isn’t just that my sister’s gone, but that I never got the chance to convince her of the brilliance of Locker Mastreets.
As a man of astronomy, I don’t buy into religion. But I can’t ignore how stubbornly it persists across cultures and centuries, or the comfort it clearly brings. Spirituality, it seems, is a human need. And since Rutendo was a dyed-in-the-wool Christian, I’ll play along. If she were right, and there really is an afterlife, then she’s reading this now. Which means, Rue, the moment’s here. It’s time to finally make my case and lay out why Locker Mastreets is the greatest song ever recorded.
Intro
Now that you’re an angel, that clears two things up: (1) angels exist, and (2) heaven is at least slightly more progressive than I thought. Growing up, I always thought HR at Heaven Inc. had a serious gender representation problem. Dad used to pacify us with his “angels are non-binary” lecture, but every single one of them rolls with male-coded names. Michael, Gabriel, Lucifer. If you’re going to argue inclusivity, at least give us an Angel Tracy, or Angel Brenda, or Angel Ritz Mcleish... something! To complicate things further, Genesis 6 has angels impregnating human women, which at the very least raises uncomfortable theological questions about angel biology.
But that’s not why I’m writing, Rue. What I really want is intel on Michael, the archangel of war. Have you crossed paths with him yet? What’s he like? What’s the gossip up there? I only ask because down here, Silent Killer has taken it upon himself to claim the title. He doesn’t just hint at it either; he’s gone as far as declaring it on every track: “Angel of waaaar!” It’s become his signature. Can you confirm if Heaven Inc. signed off on this? Should we start treating him like a fallen angel or just a guy with branding issues? Do me a favor and settle this once and for all. Much appreciated.
Locker Mastreets opens with: “Na wanna dem ho! Regionary irih!” which means absolutely nothing. This is Silent Killer’s true genius: the ability to say whatever syllables happen to fall out of his mouth without a shred of fear that someone might call him crazy. I wish I had that kind of freedom. What’s holding me back is the fear of prison or psychiatric evaluation. I’m sure if Silent Killer had been born in a developed country, he’d have been committed long ago; padded walls, three meals a day, freestyling and scaring the nurses.
Now, when you were climbing that staircase to heaven, I bet you saw a lot of American kids. Most of them probably died of fentanyl overdoses. Fentanyl is this insane opioid. The scare stories say it’s so potent you could catch a lethal dose just by brushing against someone who’s taken it. That’s not actually true, but the war on drugs needs its boogeymen. In any case, it’s a uniquely American epidemic, which makes me 99% sure Silent Killer is not on fentanyl. But sometimes, when he screams Ngwereese words like “Regionary irih,” that other 1% feels possible.
Remember when Taku was a kid, and he used to take apart literally everything? You hated it because half the time he’d swallow the batteries to your watch or scatter screws across the house. But once, he took apart the TV remote — I think it was a JVC — and discovered a secret menu button. It turns out JVC had a “technician version” of the remote with diagnostic features, but the regular ones still had all the circuits built in. Suddenly, we had new picture filters and hidden settings that made us feel like we’d unlocked cheat codes.
The same thing happened with the car I bought Mom. I never told you I bought her one because I knew you’d blab and ruin the surprise, but it got delivered a month after you passed. She was ecstatic. Your ululation would’ve made the moment sweeter, but I guess you’ve got wings now, so you don’t really need a car.
Anyway, the car didn’t come with automatic headlights or fog lamps. But when Taku was tinkering under the hood, he discovered the bulbs and wiring were already installed. All it needed was a different switch from a mechanic, and boom: fog lamps and auto-lights unlocked. The manufacturer’s “upgrade” was literally just buttons.
That’s Silent Killer in a nutshell. He doesn’t come with automatic headlights or fog lamps. The stock version gives you nonsense like Mulundukwa. But once he stumbles onto the hidden buttons in his circuitry, he suddenly lights up and turns into something else. And that something else is what happens as soon as the first verse begins.
Verse 1
Since you’re gone, Rue, I’ve inherited the noble but cursed duty of listening to Star FM’s Hot Topic with Mom. It’s one of the heavier crosses you left me to bear. Monday to Thursday, without fail: “Hi KVG naSakhy.” It’s brought Mom and me closer, sure, but it’s also made me an unwilling custodian of Zimbabwe’s strangest confessions. I miss the sweet bliss of not knowing strangers’ problems.
Take one night a few weeks ago. The topic was a woman who’d been working in South Africa as a domestic helper, which is only marginally better than a tobacco farm. In Zim, the minimum wage for a live-in maid is about $70 a month, which translates to $2 a day. Worse: these helpers are often loaned out to family friends, which is how you end up working three jobs for one payslip. The so-called “free room” is basically Harry Potter’s closet. In Hong Kong, the law says the smallest room you can legally put workers in is 4m², which is why short nannies are suddenly in demand.
Anyway, this lady would blow off steam on weekends, decompressing as one does when you’re underpaid and overworked. One night in Joburg, she meets a fellow Zimbabwean named Simba. Sparks fly, biology happens, pregnancy follows. Fast-forward: she returns home, and the baby tragically passes. The burial paperwork requires the father, Simba the Deadbeat, who has now vanished into thin air. Her question: What do I do?
The studio went nuclear: arguments, insults, unsolicited sermons, and moral debates. Mom, ever pragmatic, immediately went into Fixer Mode: “With the right bribe, this can be sorted in two hours.” I objected, pointing out that corruption like that in other countries would earn you a hanging. Mom countered that Zimbabwe is so corrupt that other nations measure their corruption in milli-Zimbabwes. We laughed.
My favorite caller was a slightly drunk guy who slipped in right before the 6 o’clock news. He gave his nonsense advice, then casually asked the DJs to play Winky D’s 2018 classic, Simba. Whoever was on duty — KVG or Donna (are we sure they aren’t the same person?) — shut him down with the most joyless “Thanks for calling. We’ll see what we can do.”
Rue, I was crushed. Because KVG (or Donna) just let it breeze past, but that request was pure genius! Ten seconds into Simba, Winky D belts: “Tiri kutsvaga simba, kuno tiri kutsvaga simba.” The drunk guy had just pulled off A-grade situational comedy, but they just sat there stone-faced. Not even a pity chuckle. If you were there, you’d have been in hysterics; I know that track was one of your favorites. (Also, quick confirmation: Do you get Winky D on rotation up there? At least Dzika Ngirozi? Because if the playlist is just Hulengende, I need to know now so I can start breaking commandments.)
But that’s the thing: sometimes you miss the joke. Maybe that’s how Silent Killer fans feel when people like me don’t get it. The first half of this verse is absolute nonsense. He goes from bragging about his popularity, detours into a PSA about the consequences of getting pricked by a nail, and then, out of nowhere, he’s rapping about… drool. Literal spit. That’s the sequence: fame → nails → saliva. I’m sorry, I don’t get it. I can’t tell you how we got there. Maybe this is my KVG/Donna moment.
But then the fog lights come on.
Team yakaruza; handichawanikwe pa-many more
Usanditsvage kumabhuza; I don’t play that league anymore
Rue, I know you love this. This is where it becomes undeniable. The rhyme scheme alone! He’s not just rhyming line endings. The internal “yakaruza” and “pamabhuza” dance together perfectly. And remember, this isn’t written. This is freestyle, straight off the dome. No notebook, no drafts; just raw Ngwere brain. He’s cooking harder than you did on Sundays, no offense. Speaking of which, I still have the ring molds you bought. (And enough with the duvets, please. I have enough to open a guest lodge.)
You told me you bought those ring molds because circular food makes people believe you trained at Le Cordon Bleu. Mashed potatoes taste like mashed potatoes, but once you ring-mold them into a perfect circle and add concentric gravy swirls, suddenly it’s fine dining. I did it last Easter, and now the family thinks I’m Gordon Ramsay. Good plating makes even a simple meal seem divine. It tricks the brain into thinking it’s Michelin. And that’s what Silent Killer needs: presentation.
His raw talent is untouchable, but the packaging is a crime. He dresses like a man who lost custody of his own wardrobe. If he styled himself like Travis Scott, it’d be over for everyone else. But instead, we get the Locker Mastreets artwork, which is one of the ugliest covers I’ve ever seen. It actively discourages you from listening, because why punish your ears and your eyes at the same time?
But Rue, the second that chorus lands, all sins are forgiven.
Chorus
Ndini ndakalocker mastreets mugarrison
Ndiri kupisa kupfuura hondo yepaLebanon
Mikaire vakaleader marathon
Ngoma ririmuropa, mubhonzo, muskeleton
Ridza ngoma kunge Mighty Simpleton
Nama ngoma kuita kunge uri Trinepon
Hanzi wenge uri kupi all along
Uchitsvagwa nemabhebhi mayellowbone
In Iceland, there’s a phrase that translates to “playing chess with the Pope.” It means to poop. No one knows how, no one cares why. It just stuck. That’s how you approach Silent Killer: don’t interrogate it, don’t ask for logic. Just accept the nonsense as canon and nod along.
Traditionally, a chorus is the prize cow. Artists bring out the full artillery: backing vocals, stacked harmonies, instrumental swells, and adlibs sprinkled like confetti. Silent Killer skips all that. His hook is stark, unpolished, and bare. By all rights, it shouldn’t work, yet somehow, it worms its way into your subconscious and stays. The song is so underproduced that it should collapse under its own weight, but Ngwere’s charisma is the scaffolding. His voice alone has the gravity to carry it.
This is where my complicated history with adlibs comes in. I’ve hated adlibs since 2010, when I spent a short, disastrous month in Form 1 at Visitation Makumbi in Domboshawa. Makumbi was Catholic through and through. Everyone there knew the rosary better than their ABCs. My only real understanding of Catholicism was that I should avoid being an altar boy at all costs. The music, though, was beautiful.
Forgive my ignorance, Rue, but genuine question: who sings in heaven? Is the choir some kind of ecumenical supergroup with Methodists on soprano, Anglicans on alto, and Presbyterians on bass? Do Jews and Muslims have their own choir? I really don’t care, honestly, as long as the mic never lands in the hands of Pentecostals. I’d rather roast in hell than sit through a ZAOGA choir.
Back to Makumbi. There was this hymn, Tsika DzouKristo. The choir would stretch the “Tsikaaaa” before dropping the “DzouKristoooo.” In that little pocket, I found my calling. I adlibbed: “Dzeiko?” So the hook now went: “Tsikaaaa….dzeiko? DzouKristooooo!” Mass became a comedy show. Within a week, every pew was holding its breath for the gap just to throw in their own “dzeiko?” It became the Catholic version of a mosh pit. Until Father Müller, God rest him, reminded us with a thorough caning that the Vatican does not, in fact, approve of adlibs. I think Father Müller would have respected Silent Killer. He doesn’t pad his hook with gimmicks. He doesn’t hide behind tricks; no stacked vocals, no fillers, no “yeah yeah” in the background. No adlibs. It’s bare. It’s bold. It’s Ngwere.
Then we get to the yellowbone line. Now, as a yellowbone yourself, Rue, I know you’ll deny Silent Killer’s claim that women like you were chasing after him. Maybe that’s why you never got married. Your standards were too high. Because what’s wrong with Silent Killer? He’s got charisma. He’s aware of the war in Lebanon, which suggests he reads the foreign news section of the newspaper. The only place you’d clash is over the pronunciation of “Trinepon.” And yes, we’ve fought about this before: you insist it’s “Tri-neh-pon,” we say “Tri-nah-pon.” Sometimes you just let the rhyme live, Rue. The greats do it all the time.
On You Ain’t Got Nuthin from Tha Carter III (classic), Lil Wayne butchered “asinine”:
Got paper like a fax machine, asaneen
Damn I mean asinine, I'm dapper don, and after mine
On Shame On A Nigga from Enter The Wu-Tang (classic), Method Man chopped “competitor”:
I sever
The head from the shoulders, I'm better
Than my compet’ta
You mean competitor, whatever, let’s get together
On Kill You from The Marshall Mathers LP (classic), Eminem killed “twice”:
These eighty Gs a week to say the same things tweece
Twice, whatever, I hate these things
Rappers butcher words. But notice: they all correct themselves in the next line. Silent Killer never does. He butchers with conviction. No retraction, no apology. He just doubles down until you start doubting your own pronunciation. That’s an alpha.
Bagga might be the only artist who rivals Silent Killer in this department. He lives in his own dictionary. Remember how I wanted my wedding in November? You vetoed it because November is a “sacred” month. We pushed the wedding to January at your insistence. Then you passed in December. To this day, I’m convinced you were just jealous. Did you ever confirm with Angel Gabriel whether November is even sacred?
Winky D seems to back this up. On Simba, he raps, “Ndiyeresei kunge November.” If the Gafa co-signs it, then who am I to argue? Which is why Bagga’s line on Mvura—“Ndoyera kunge mwedzi waZvita”—had me scratching my head. December? December is the month people commit their worst sins in bulk, back-to-back. Maybe Bagga thought Zvita was Shona for November. Who knows? The rhyme with tazviita was clean, so no one cared. This is the context in which Silent Killer thrives. He doesn’t need to be logical, or precise, or polished. He needs only to be memorable, and he is. Sometimes, that’s the whole point; rhyme first, logic second. I can forgive that.
Where I draw the line is the debate: did Bagga sing “Chero mhuka dzinoda mvura” (Even animals need water) or “Chero mukadzi ndoda mvura” (I want a beautiful wife)? Respectfully, if you’re in the “mhuka” camp, please log off permanently. May your heaven have a ZAOGA choir led by Hulengende.
Verse 2
At Selmor Mtukudzi’s Selmor 4.0 album launch — which doubled as her 40th birthday party — she did the gracious host thing. She came to our table, leaned in, and asked, “Which song should I perform for you guys?” Like the clown that I am, I shouted, “Ambassador!” She tilted her head, confused. Because, of course, the song is not called Ambassador. It’s called Hangasa. I still don’t know how my brain made the leap from Hangasa to Ambassador. Maybe I was on shrooms, which neatly brings me to my confession.
You always suspected I was dabbling in substances. You never had proof, but you were never convinced by my “I’m just like this naturally” defense either. If angels can watch replays, it means you’ve already confirmed what I kept hidden in the attic. You’ve seen it: the attic stash, the late nights, the glazed eyes, the evidence. Yes, I took shrooms. You were right. Consider this my formal apology for gaslighting you into thinking you were paranoid. You weren’t paranoid. I owe you that truth.
But hear me out, Rue: I recommend shrooms. In heaven, they can’t possibly hurt you. Worst case, you hallucinate angels in the sky, which is just Tuesday for you now. Listening to Silent Killer on shrooms convinced me that’s the only way to experience him. Everything clicks perfectly that way. The chaos arranges itself into perfect geometry.
One night, I was so high I thought I was writing the best song of my life. My wife peeked over my shoulder, glanced at the page, and asked, “Why are you rewriting the lyrics to Mulundukwa?” Suddenly, everything made sense. To write like Silent Killer, you have to be in an altered state. You have to break through the veil into a higher spiritual realm. His lines feel dictated by Archangel Michael himself, which explains a lot of the bars, except maybe the Andy Muridzo shade.
Verse 2 of Locker Mastreets is basically a love letter. Ngwere sprinkles wholesomeness everywhere. It’s shout-outs, salutes, and gratitude. And then, for three random bars, he goes full WWE heel turn on Andy Muridzo. Why, of all people, Andy Muridzo? It’s not like he’s some towering megastar you beef with for publicity. You actually have to go out of your way to shade Andy. His name only rises to the top of a list if we’re alphabetizing Zimbabwean musicians. He’s not even the most famous Andy in Zimbabwean music history.
For what it’s worth, I like Baba Keketso’s music. Nhekwe and Binocular are in my rotation. But lately, I hear more gossip about him than actual music. He seems like the kind of guy who waters his plants, pays his bills, and minds his own business, which makes Silent Killer’s jab even weirder.
The only connection I can dig up is that Andy has a track called Rovha on a riddim called Silent Killer 5. Could that be the reason? The only other link I can find — and I admit I’m stretching here — is that Andy once sang, “Mai mwana muri avocado, munenge Dherira.” That sounds like something Ngwere himself would rap. Maybe he just saw too much of himself in that bar and lashed out.
I had a dream recently where I was just ruthlessly ripping into Baba Harare for no reason until he cried. He hadn’t wronged me. My brain just decided, “Let’s make Baba Harare cry tonight.” Dreams do that. They hand you random intrusive thoughts. The difference is most of us wake up, laugh about it, and move on. Maybe Silent Killer had the same kind of stray thought about Andy, except he didn’t leave it in dreamland. Instead of letting it float away, he hit record. That’s the difference between us mortals and Ngwere: we filter, he doesn’t.
The rest of the verse is much friendlier. Godfatha Templeman gets his flowers, which makes sense. If my memory’s right, Zimdancehall Overdrive launched on Star FM in 2012, hidden in the late-night slot because the morning shows had all the prime space. Templeman ran with it. I’m old now; anything that challenges my bedtime is a threat, so I stopped tuning in. But I remember the show being a riot.
Templeman had a gift for booking eccentrics. For every Silent Killer he championed, he also gave airtime to ten Pfira Dandys and Queen Thunder Magate of Pum Pum Mahara fame. Zimdancehall has the deepest bench of eccentrics of any genre on earth. In that league of characters, Silent Killer doesn’t even crack the Top 20 weirdest. Statistically speaking, Ngwere is considered normal. Think about that.
Still, Templeman is important. He put entire careers on the map, including Winky D, who most people will tell you is the GOAT. So I get the shout-out. But the other names: Massvilla, Flavour, Etherton, Garry B, Abisha, 2Bad, Jefferson, Tynash… I couldn’t tell you if they’re DJs, artists, or street names for narcotics, in which case 2Bad would obviously be crystal meth.
The irony, of course, is that Silent Killer has an entire track called Mazita where he clowns other people’s names. This is coming from a guy whose own circle is running around as 2Bad, Massvilla, and Flavour. And then there’s his own government name: Jimmy. You can’t be Jimmy and roast anyone else’s name. Jimmy is what you call your puppy when you’ve run out of ideas. Regardless, Mazita gave us my favorite Zimdancehall line of all time:
Ungape zita mwana here kuti Ozemwa?
Anosekwa kana mbanje dzobhemwa
Mira uone zuda raanogerwa
This is why I keep defending Silent Killer. The beauty here is that Ozemwa does not exist. Not in Zimbabwe, not anywhere. I am confident those six letters had never been arranged in that order until Jimmy decided they should. He conjured a human being out of thin air just to make a rhyme work. Then he followed it up with two lines that manage to give you way too much information and not enough at the same time.
It's ridiculous. It’s absurd. It’s brilliant. And it’s why, as much as we clown him, I’ll still say with my whole chest: Jimmy is the greatest bard of our time.
Outro
One thing I’ll never forgive Zimdancehall for is the scam they call a “third verse.” I put it in quotes because it’s not a verse at all. It’s just the first verse shamelessly copied and pasted onto the end of the track. It’s not flipped or reimagined; it’s literally the same verse, dragged and dropped — Ctrl+C, Ctrl+V — and stapled to the back of the song. You’re vibing, thinking you’re about to get something new, and as you brace for a finale… déjà vu.
Why do they do this? Everyone has a theory.
The first is length-padding. Back in the early radio era, someone pushed the myth that songs had to be at least three minutes long to perform well. I have no idea where this data came from; there’s no spreadsheet or study. I also have no idea who cooked up the metric, but every producer ran with it. If your song came in at 2:07, instead of writing more, slapping Verse One onto the outro was the cheapest way to bulk it up without stepping back into the booth.
The second theory is what I like to call the live-performance excuse. In the industry, they’ll dress it up as performance-friendly repetition, but really, it’s just karaoke. DJs want something the audience can latch onto, something familiar to chant, so the repeated verse becomes a built-in encore. By the time it rolls around, the mic gets shoved into the audience, and everyone proudly and faithfully screams along.
The third theory is the stylistic tradition argument. Dancehall, pop, and even hip-hop producers sometimes loop a verse because it’s simply too good to retire after one lap. The bounce is bouncing, the riddim’s still marinating, so you just spin the block again. It’s the musical equivalent of chimunya: technically, it’s old, but when you’re hungry at 6 a.m., it still slaps. A vibe is a vibe, even if it’s reheated.
Then there’s the fourth theory, the laziest explanation: time and money. Sessions are rushed, and budgets are thin. Ngwere records one verse, dips, and the sound engineer is left to patchwork a full song out of whatever scraps he’s got — finished product by any means necessary.
With Locker Mastreets, I think it’s all four reasons at once. It breaks my heart because this is otherwise the closest thing to a perfect Silent Killer song. But instead of closing clean, it drags itself back and overstays its welcome. I’d take a tight two-minute banger over a padded five-minute marathon any day. If I want Verse One again, I’ll hit replay. We have the technology. There’s even a button for that now.
To make it worse, the official version of Locker Mastreets ends by smuggling in a preview of another track after the fade-out. I’ve never heard that mystery track again. They knew it was crap so they tried to Trojan Horse it in through the outro, hoping someone, anyone, would notice. Bold strategy, but nobody bought it.
Speaking of crap, I recently learned something horrifying-slash-hilarious about world leaders. At that cursed meeting with Kim Jong Un, Vladimir Putin, and Xi Jinping (three perfect candidates if Silent Killer ever does Mazita Part Two), I discovered Kim takes his poop back home whenever he travels. Every nugget of his turd is vacuum-sealed and flown back to Pyongyang like evidence. He’s terrified foreign agents will raid the sewers, scoop it up, and analyze his DNA for weaknesses such as lactose intolerance, haemorrhoids, gout, IBS, whatever, so his aides literally package it and cart it off.
It turns out the Russian President does the same. Pootie, as Mom insists on calling him, has a special squad whose only duty is guarding his dumps. His biowaste gets carried around in a locked briefcase. Imagine thinking you’ve been trusted with the nuclear codes and opening it to find three Ziplocs of borscht.
It doesn’t stop there, because America is no better. The U.S. President’s number twos also get collected — standard protocol since at least the Bush years. I don’t know where they dispose of it. Officially, no one says. But if you forced me to guess, I’d say it’s quietly shipped to Harare, where it’s repurposed into Zimdancehall riddims.
Here’s the thing, though: governments don’t go to this trouble unless there’s a real threat. This means, somewhere in the dusty archives of espionage history, an actual spy was given the assignment of harvesting a world leader’s biological samples. Imagine the pep talk: “Son, your country needs you. Your mission is to retrieve samples of Trump’s farts. History will not remember your name, but your nose will remember everything.”
And that’s when it hit me; I was wrong. Working on a tobacco farm isn’t the worst job on earth. Not by a long shot.
Rest in peace, Rutendo. I miss you.
